II. Seekers

Senna's rest was cut short by the rough shove of a hand against his shoulder. His eyes snapped open, his body tensing on instinct, but he quickly relaxed when he saw the source of the disturbance—a wiry, gray-haired man in tattered clothing. The man's face was lined with age and grime, his eyes bloodshot and suspicious as he glared down at Senna.

"This ain't your spot," the man growled, his voice rough with anger and fatigue. "Move on."

Senna didn't argue. He was too tired, too indifferent to let a confrontation unfold. He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his blanket and stepping aside without a word. The old man muttered something under his breath as he dropped onto the patch of floor Senna had vacated.

"Damned refugees," the man spat, his voice low but venomous. "Comin' in here, takin' everything—our food, our space. No respect for those of us who've been here long before.

Senna didn't respond. He'd heard enough muttering and complaining to last a lifetime. Instead, he focused on his surroundings, noting the faint shafts of sunlight that now poured through the cracks in the roof. Morning had come.

The sunlight seemed harmless at first glance, its golden rays casting a soft glow across the dilapidated church. But Senna felt it before he even saw it—an instinctive warning that crawled up his spine and quickened his pulse. His skin prickled, his senses sharpening as though he were in the presence of a predator.

Carefully, he stepped back, keeping himself well out of the reach of the creeping rays. The transformation had heightened his awareness of sunlight in ways he still didn't fully understand. Even the briefest exposure was enough to send his nerves alight, his skin burning as if he'd plunged his hand into a fire.

From the shadows where he stood, Senna studied the beams of light. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, floating through the golden streams as though mocking his unease. He clenched his fists, steadying himself.

The homeless man had already forgotten him, sprawled out on the floor with his arms crossed over his chest. Outside, the sounds of the city were beginning to stir—carriages rumbling over cobblestones, voices rising and falling as vendors opened their stalls. Morning in Northgate had a rhythm all its own, alive with movement and purpose.

Senna grabbed his blanket, its coarse fabric rough against his skin, and carefully wrapped it around his body. He took extra care to ensure no part of him was exposed, tucking the edges tightly at his wrists and pulling the hood low over his face. The blanket was far from an ideal shield, but it would have to do.

He stepped cautiously toward the church's crumbling entrance, where the light poured in through the gaps in the stonework. As he pushed open the weathered wooden door, the golden glow of the morning sun spilled across the threshold. His instincts screamed at him to retreat, but he forced himself forward, stepping into the brightness.

The sunlight stung. It wasn't the searing agony of direct exposure on bare skin, but even through the blanket, he felt its oppressive weight—a constant itch, a faint burn that gnawed at his senses. Every step was a reminder of his transformation, of how the world itself had turned against him.

Senna's path took him back to the makeshift Church of Light aid station in the refugee camp. The black-robed members moved with quiet efficiency, distributing food and supplies to the gathered crowd.

When his turn came, the same young man from yesterday greeted him before handing him a small bundle wrapped in cloth. 

"Hello, again. You're rations", he said,stepping aside to help the next person in line.

Senna unwrapped the bundle as he walked away and raised an eyebrow. Inside were two loaves of bread, fresh and warm, and a small bar of chocolate, its wrapper gleaming faintly in the dim light of the camp.

"You went all out today. What happened?" Senna asked as he turned back to the young man, holding up the bundle.

The robed man explained, "The Seekers from the Church of the Light have just arrived. They're here to investigate the cause of the fires. They brought with them food for everybody here.

Senna nodded, his expression unreadable. "Hopefully everything'll be fixed," he said, though his tone carried a hint of caution. If the Seekers were to figure out about Senna's situation, he would most likely be killed. He had to avoid them at all costs.

He turned his attention back to his food. Senna studied the bread in his hands, its warmth still lingering from the baker's oven. The scent was tempting, his stomach twisting with hunger, but there was something he had to do. 

It had been almost a week since he had bathed, and the sweat and grime from travel and living in the forest left a pungent, foul odor clinging to his body. 

With a resigned sigh, he broke off a small piece of one loaf, just enough to stave off the gnawing in his stomach. The rest he wrapped carefully in the cloth and tucked under his arm.

The market district was already alive with activity by the time he arrived. Merchants called out their wares, and the mingling scents of spices, roasted meats, and freshly baked goods filled the air. Senna kept his hood low, his blanket tightly secured around him, as he scanned the stalls for a likely buyer.

He found one in a burly man standing behind a cart laden with dried goods—jerked meats, salted fish, and preserved fruits. The merchant's sleeves were rolled up, exposing thick, scarred arms, and his sharp eyes followed every passerby with practiced scrutiny.

"Looking to sell?" the merchant asked gruffly as Senna approached, his gaze flicking to the bread.

"Yes," Senna said, holding out the loaves. "Fresh from the Church of Light's kitchens. Two for four coppers."

The merchant snorted. "Generous of the church, but that doesn't make it worth four. I'll give you three."

"Three won't get me what I need," Senna replied, his tone steady. He didn't have the patience for haggling, but desperation gave him resolve. "You could sell these for six if you're clever about it. Four coppers, and they're yours. Nice and fresh, too."

The merchant stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. "Fine," he said, digging into his pouch and tossing four worn coins onto the cart. He took the bread, inspecting it briefly before adding it to his display.

Senna pocketed the coins and turned away, wasting no time to head to the bathhouse. 

After selling the bread, Senna adjusted his blanket and continued walking through the bustling streets of Northgate. 

He kept his head low, his hood pulled tight, trying to remain as inconspicuous as someone of his size could.

It was then that he noticed them.

A group of men walked in formation down the street, their presence cutting a path through the crowd. They wore uniforms of black and yellow, the same colors as the Church of Light's robes, but these were starkly different—structured and militaristic. Their coats were long, buttoned to the collar, with polished brass badges glinting in the sunlight. Black belts held batons at their sides, and some had holstered pistols. Their peaked caps bore the radiant sun emblem, but unlike the comforting symbol worn by the church's aid workers, this one seemed to radiate authority and intimidation.

Seekers.

Senna's breath caught in his throat, and he instinctively hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller. He pulled his blanket tighter, keeping his face shadowed as the group passed by

They didn't look at him. Their sharp gazes swept over him and moved on, their attention drawn elsewhere.

Senna allowed himself to exhale, the tension in his chest easing slightly. He kept walking, his pace steady, but his mind raced. The Church's aid workers might offer kindness, but the Seekers were a different story entirely. If they knew what he had become—if they suspected for even a moment—there would be no mercy.

But, for now, he reminded himself, the Seekers most likely had no idea what they were looking for. They were searching for something—or someone—but it wasn't him. Not yet. His transformation wasn't common knowledge, and the fires were still cloaked in mystery. Whatever their mission, it wasn't tied to him directly.

Senna straightened slightly, though he kept his hood low. There was no sense in drawing attention unnecessarily, but neither was there cause for paranoia. 

After navigating a maze of narrow alleys and cobblestone roads, Senna found what he was looking for: the public bathhouse. It was a squat, unassuming building of aged stone, steam drifting lazily from vents near the roof. A faded wooden sign hung above the entrance, depicting a basin of water flanked by curling tendrils of steam.

He hesitated at the door, his hand lingering on the rough wood. A bath would mean removing the blanket, exposing himself, if only briefly, to the sunlight that streamed through the windows. The thought sent a ripple of unease through him, but he pushed it aside.

He stepped inside, the warmth of the bathhouse immediately enveloping him. The air was thick with humidity, and the faint scent of soap and minerals clung to the walls. A few patrons milled about, some wrapped in towels, others engaged in quiet conversation as they prepared to bathe.

Senna approached the counter, where a middle-aged attendant sat reading a battered book. The man barely glanced up, his voice monotone as he spoke. "Two coppers for entry. Soap's extra if you need it."

Senna fumbled for the small coin pouch he'd tied to his waist. He placed two tarnished coppers on the counter, nodding silently.

The attendant shrugged, gesturing toward the changing area. "Keep your belongings out of the water," he muttered before returning to his book.

Senna moved quickly, finding a shadowed corner where he could disrobe without drawing attention. He slipped out of the blanket cautiously, keeping his movements slow and deliberate to avoid the sunlight streaming through the windows. Once stripped, he wrapped himself in a towel provided by the bathhouse and made his way to the bathing area.

The sight of the steaming pools was almost enough to make him sigh in relief. Warm water lapped gently at the stone edges, its surface shimmering faintly in the hazy light. He slipped into the nearest pool, the heat washing over him like a balm.

For the first time in days, Senna allowed himself to relax, the tension in his muscles easing as he sank deeper into the water. The grime and sweat that clung to him began to dissolve, carried away by the rippling surface.

The bathwater rippled gently as Senna reached for the brush sitting on the stone edge. It was coarse but effective, and he pressed it against his skin, scrubbing away the layers of grime, sweat, and dirt that had accumulated over the past week. The sensation was both invigorating and painful, the bristles biting into his skin, but it felt good to shed the filth that clung to him like a second layer.

As he worked, steam rose around him, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to relax, letting the heat soak into his tired muscles.

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice startled him. Senna turned sharply to find a man standing nearby, wrapped in a towel. He was strikingly handsome, with a sharp jawline, olive-toned skin that gleamed faintly in the humid air, and dark eyes that seemed to carry both curiosity and confidence. His black hair was damp, clinging to his forehead in slick strands.

Senna's first instinct was to refuse, but a quick glance around the bathhouse revealed the reason for the man's request. The other pools were packed, groups of men laughing and chatting, their voices echoing off the stone walls. This one, secluded and quieter, was the only bath with space left.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering back to the man. "Fine," Senna said, his deep voice gruff but nonchalant. He shifted slightly to one side of the pool, creating enough room for the newcomer.

The man smiled, his teeth white and straight, and stepped into the water with practiced ease. The ripples spread outward as he settled in, leaning back against the edge opposite Senna.

"Appreciate it," he said, stretching his arms along the stone lip of the pool. "Crowded today. Guess everyone's got the same idea."

Senna grunted in response, focusing back on scrubbing his arm. He wasn't much for small talk, especially with strangers, but the man's presence was hard to ignore. His ease and confidence were a stark contrast to the wary glances and hurried movements Senna was used to from others.

After a moment, the man spoke again, his tone light. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Senna tensed slightly but kept his voice steady. "What makes you say that?"

The man chuckled softly, the sound low and pleasant. "You stick out," he said, gesturing vaguely toward Senna's broad frame. "Not just your size—though that's hard to miss—but the way you carry yourself. You're different."

Senna didn't respond immediately, his hand gripping the brush tightly. He didn't owe this man any explanations, but there was no malice in the observation—only curiosity.

"Just passing through," he said finally, his tone dismissive.

The man nodded, as if satisfied with the answer. "Fair enough. Name's Darian, by the way," he said, offering a small, friendly smile.

Senna paused, then nodded. "Senna."

"Good to meet you, Senna," Darian said, leaning his head back against the edge of the pool.

Senna said nothing, focusing on scrubbing the grime from his other arm. He wasn't sure what to make of Darian—his charm, his confidence, or his apparent interest. For now, he decided it was best to keep things simple.

The two men sat in silence for a while, the steam curling around them as the distant hum of voices from the other baths filled the space

As the silence stretched on, Darian shifted slightly in the water, clearly at ease, his fingers tracing the edge of the stone pool. Finally, he spoke again, his tone light but tinged with a hint of frustration.

"You know, Northgate's such a backward town," Darian said, shaking his head with a wry smile. "No railroads, no power plants. It's like they haven't moved past the last century." He paused for a moment, as if pondering his next words. "I mean, the fact that they still rely on coal and wood for most of their energy... it's like a relic of a bygone age."

Senna remained quiet, but he could sense the underlying criticism in Darian's words. He had grown up in the countryside, so the advancements of Northgate was all he knew. However, he did hear about the marvelous technology of the cities down south of Tarsyn. 

Darian chuckled softly, as if realizing the irony of his next point. "At least they've got gasoline-powered heat for the baths. That's something, right? I mean, I've been in some towns where the only thing they've got are fires and stoves. Makes you appreciate little luxuries like that."

Senna's lips quivered slightly, his gaze flicking over to the industrial-style boilers heating the bathhouse. "I suppose," he replied, his voice still rough.

Darian gave a soft laugh, a sound that echoed in the steamy air. "True enough," he said, settling back into the water. "But hey, you take what you can get. I've seen worse. At least the heat works here."

Senna couldn't help but be intrigued by Darian's casual tone and the way he spoke about the town, so he decided to press further. "Are you also a traveler, then?" he asked, the question slipping out without much thought.

Darian turned his head slightly, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he considered the question. "Not exactly," he said with a small grin. "I'm here for official business."

Senna raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest piquing inside him. "Official business?" he echoed, his tone neutral, though his posture stiffened slightly.

Darian leaned back in the water, unbothered, as though the conversation was nothing more than idle chatter. "Yeah," he replied, "I'm a Seeker for the Church of Light. I'm here to investigate the recent fires and the people they've affected." 

Senna froze. His muscles tensed, his instincts flaring to life as his mind raced.

His heart skipped a beat. The last thing he wanted was to attract the attention of the Church of Light. They weren't after him now, but a Seeker's purpose could easily extend to someone like him if they got wind of what he had become, what he had done, or the strange powers he now harbored.

But as the silence stretched on, Senna realized something. Darian's gaze was steady, but it lacked suspicion—there was no recognition in his eyes, no indication that he saw anything unusual about Senna. In fact, Darian seemed far more concerned with the fires and the state of the town than with any individual refugee.

Senna let out a quiet breath, the tension in his body easing. He wasn't being sought by the Church, not now, and not by this man.

"I see," Senna said slowly, trying to return to the casual tone they had before. "I didn't realize the Church was so involved in these things."

Darian shrugged, his expression softening again. "The Church of Light is everywhere. They've got their fingers in all kinds of business. If it's a disaster or a tragedy, we're there to help, investigate, whatever is needed." He gave a small chuckle, as if the work was both a burden and a calling. "I'm just one of many."